


Brought Low

by PandoraKarp



Series: Daughter of the Crystals [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, I wrote this because canon pissed me off, Minor Character Death, Suffering, Zenos being and ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraKarp/pseuds/PandoraKarp
Summary: The loss at the Reach changed her. She seemed almost possessed by her hatred. Whether because the Imperial Prince had wounded her pride or for some other reason, Alisaie didn't know.





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry it's not smut. It's just gratuitous violence porn. The first fight with Zenos really pissed me off because the Warrior of Light was just magically alright despite losing so devastatingly. Let my baby have feelings and get hurt you cowards.

Coming upon the ruins of Rhalgar’s Reach, Arte was almost glad she was out of breath for the smell of the smoke and flames was unbearable and inescapable. They all froze at the entrance of the once lively resistance hideout, unable to quite rationalize the level of destruction. The dead and dying were strewn about like trash. Some, mercifully, fell in the initial bombing that had alerted them all the way at the Castrum while others fell to the blades of the invaders. Arte could see the once pure spring of the Reach now sullied with a brackish mixture of blood and ash. “This isn’t an ambush,” whispered Alphinaud hoarsely, “This is a  _ massacre _ .” On that, they all could agree.

The short assessment was all they were allowed before they were set upon by the invaders.  _ “Stomp them out, let none escape!” _ they yelled before charging in. Arte and Pipin took the front, cesti and broadsword felling the first few easily due to their overconfidence. Their fellows, however, were much more discerning after that. Alisaie joined in with her conjured blade, covering Pipin’s flank. While Krile and Alphinaud flung spells at those farthest. They continued this formation from the first wave to the second in the merchant’s quarters. A familiar flop of blonde hair and red leg braces caught her eye and Arte broke formation, crying out the others to follow her. They pushed their way to the steps of the command tent before Krile was able to reach Lyse and Y’shtola. Lyse weakly motioned to the healer and Arte could smell the blood from where she stood a few paces back. “Alphinaud I need your help!” the Lalafel screamed. Alphinaud took to her quickly, light pouring from the both of them. Which left Alisaie and Pipin to help her fend off the rest of the rabble still putting up a fight. 

Meffrid lay at the feet of the woman whom, Arte recalled leading the turncoat Ala Mhigans.  _ The Skulls _ . “Arte wait!” she vaguely heard Alisaie plead before she was running to engage the swordsman. Fury boiled in her veins as she threw her right hook towards the commander’s face. The redhead dodged, shuffling back a ways, but Arte was expecting it and quickly leapt to cover the distance and planting her boots into the warrior’s gut with the force she held back from her initial punch. Arte could hear the grunt of the impact and almost cheered when her opponent all but flew back into one of the stone pillars littering the Reach. She lightly jumped from foot to foot, waiting for a counter but the woman only staggered to her feet. Heavily leaning on her sword, she spit blood onto the sand. “See to your men Pilus, this one is not like the others.”

Arte felt her skin break out in goosebumps, a murderous aura was suddenly behind her. She threw her arms in front of her head and ducked, just barely missing the whistle of a blade above her ears. She rolled back the rest of the way out of reach of the blade before facing the swordsman in full armor. Arte could see the ashen faces of Pipin and Alisaie just behind the figure, seeming just as surprised as she was at the sudden unknown interference. 

The skulls commander nodded briskly and yelled for her remaining men to retreat. Arte felt the stupor over the swordsman break and the rage flooded her veins again at the thought of them getting away. The thought of Meffrid dying without justice. She spun on her heels, preparing to dash after them, but was stopped by the quicksilver whistle of a blade and her instincts screaming at her to  _ move _ . She hears Pipin and Alisaie scream, so she plants her feet into the ground and  _ leaps _ , she tucks her feet to her chest and rolls back in time for the blade to pass a hair's breadth from her head again before landing nimbly upon the sand. “Your friends were a disappointment, but you...you will entertain me, will you not?” Arte felt herself balk at the conceited words.  _ Is this but a game to him? _ Too long did she dwell apparently, because not long after the man readied his blade and lunged straight towards her. Her ruby eyes widened and she felt herself panic, ducking and covering her head with her arm braces.  _ Fool! You can’t route a lunge like that!  _ Her hide was saved from being skewered by Pipin and his broadsword. The Lalafel had met the blow head on and caught the blade with his own. Her barked at her to move, his blade creaking under the strain of force. Arte scrambled out from behind him, rolling to a safe distance from the swordsman. Alisaie ran over to help her up, “Are you alright?” she asked hurriedly, freeing a hand long enough to right one of her vambraces. Arte took a breath of the death filled air before nodding, the adrenaline of being so caught off guard pulsing in her ears. “Good, ready yourself. I don’t think Pipin will be able to hold him for long.” was all the Elezen said before they pushed away from each other. Alisaie mirrored her movements and ran for the man’s back, sword sweeping down while Arte aimed a kick towards the shoulder. 

It felt like minutes where they hung in anticipation of their blows making contact, but then the swordsman just calmly turned his blade up to parry them both. Arte simply used the parry for leverage to jump away, but she could only watch in horror as Alisaie’s blade was brought to bear and  _ broke  _ apart. They all were stunned speechless, Arte felt like her stomach had sunk to her feet. In the next moment the man reared back, a form of magic flickering over the katana like lightning, and plunged the blade into the ground. The impact came from the ground and flew out with deadly force. Arte’s body had moved on instinct to protect her face and brace for impact, but when the air cleared of sand she saw both Pipin and her young Elezen friend had been knocked away. Pipin seemed to be unconscious, but Alisaie had been closest to the epicenter. Alphinaud cried out in fear, mindlessly discarding helping Krile heal Y’Shtola in favor of saving his sister. 

After acknowledging that they weren’t dead, Arte turned her attention back to the man, no  _ monster _ standing unmoved. He simply waited, seemingly watching the destruction he’d caused with some sort of morbid interest. She felt her skin prickle with fear, was sure she reeked of it. She couldn’t even make out his movements, let alone protect anything from them. Why was this happening?  _ How is this even possible? _ She stood on shaky legs, the wind had been knocked out of her from the blast throwing her into a pillar. “Arte!” Krile called to her frantically, attention seemingly torn between herself and her patient. “That man... _ he’s _ the Viceroy.” And suddenly it all clicks into place. The attitude, the power, the apparent disregard of life. 

All at once she hears roaring in her ears, a humming of power waiting to boil over. She’s standing in a muddy trench surrounded by corpses and wreckage. She can taste flames on her tongue; feels aether sticking to her skin. Someone is yelling from behind her.  _ “Arte, what have you done?” _

_ I’m so sorry Master Louisoix. _

She feels her body move on it’s own. The crystal of Light shining at her neck. Arte felt herself calm, body thrumming with power.  _ Mother _ . Then the swordsman lunges towards her again, but this time she’s ready and sidesteps the blow completely. She brings her armored elbow down on the blade with all the energy concentrated behind it. She almost hollers when the blade cracks and splits in two. But her joy is cut short by the hilt of another slamming into her unprotected abdomen. She keeled over, pain and nausea spreading awash from the place where she was hit. Ever unperturbed, the swordsman returned the half-unsheathed blade to it’s mechanized holster. Looming over her threateningly as she stood like a mast cracking under a storm. His disturbingly pallid helmet was all that stared back at her. He said nothing. Then, as quickly as he’d sheathed it, drew the blade out in one long arc across her chest. 

The blade, she thought numbly, was surprisingly warm. Then she couldn’t think because the feeling of her skin flying apart was all she knew. Her blood slicked the ground under her feet and she tried to press her hands to the wound but it was too big and her arms wouldn’t move. Whatever noise she tried to make only came out as a choked and hoarse cacophony. Still standing over her, the thrice damned imperial lazily sheathed his blade before turning his head down to look upon her once more. His armored boot rose to kick at her shoulder so that she lay on her back. 

_ “Pathetic.”  _ he spit out with all the vitriol he could muster. Then he calmly planted his foot across her wound and  _ pressed _ down and she felt an unmitigated scream burst from her throat. He continued, pressing harder until she felt some of her ribs snap one by one under his heel. Then it was gone and he was turning to walk away from the battle. Arte watched his back recede step by step through hazy eyes. Blood still pooling to the ground like a broken faucet, her chest feeling as though someone had put her to the flame.  _ “You...mon...ster.” _ she choked out. Rage stifling her every sense. Her anguish and anger spread out from her wound and consumed what was left of her. Then she blacked out. 


	2. Visit

If Alisaie was completely honest, she didn’t know why she was up and moving before the Warrior of Light. They had both taken the brunt of blows from that thrice damned Zenos, but somehow she had been healed and here lies the disturbingly still warrior she had seen rebound from all manner of terrible ills. She could hear the chirurgeon's explanations repeat over and over in her head.  _ She may have suffered quite the shock. The strange display of light and power she used might have taken an unknown toll.  _ Ultimately, nobody knows what precisely was wrong and there were still too many in much more dire straits to tend to than to waste time and resources on her peacefully sleeping friend.  _ Maybe she was overdue for a good long nap. _ She would have decked Thancred if she wasn’t trying to keep her own wounds from opening up and spilling her guts on the ground. 

But her friend wasn’t always sleeping peacefully, sometimes deep in the night she felt as though she could almost hear scratchy murmurs and sobs coming from the Miqo’te. But there would be no evidence come morning. So she continued her silent vigil by her friend’s bedside, talking to Arte about this and that. Guarding her rest as best she could since nobody else could nor would. Sometimes praying, when she was feeling particularly hopeless. 

More days passed with no changes. Alisaie took a rag and wiped some of the perspiration from Arte’s forehead. “The heat was pretty grueling today. You should have seen it, even Lyse was sweating.” she said idly, slightly disappointed that Arte still did nothing to show she even heard her chatter. Alisaie thought she saw her face grimace, but she really couldn’t say for certain. The nightly sounds had gotten worse as time went on, even waking Alisaie from where she had nodded off on her makeshift cot. But as fast as she could get up and try to listen they would stop and Alisae really was starting to question their veracity. 

The next night the camp was quieter than usual, almost deadly silent. It would have put the young Elezen on edge were it not for the many nights of interrupted sleep. She could feel herself being pulled into a deep and dreamless sleep. Like her mind was sent drifting into the aetheric sea, lulling her into its grasp. So she drifted... thinking, hearing, and feeling nothing. Then she felt a sudden dark anxiety in her mind’s eye. Like her instincts were reacting to some hidden danger. She tried to pull herself from sleep but no matter how hard she fought it felt like she was being pulled deeper and deeper. Past the aetheric sea and into the abyss. 

She cracked her eyes open once, twice, maybe more. In her bleary sight she thought she could make out a white cloaked figure standing over the comatose Miqo’te. A deep voice carried over into her restless sleep.  _ “I will return...that fool stole…” _ Alisae felt a brief flash of recognition. A library long lost, a comrade approached by a phantom.  _ Urianger _ . 

She startled awake, finally, feeling a cold sweat drip from her brow despite the morning heat. Alisaie felt herself stumble almost drunkenly to her friend’s bedside, desperately looking for the slightest sign of disturbance. But there was nothing. No footprints, no marks, Arte looked very much the same as she had before she had fallen asleep. Once again Alisaie retreated to her cot and sighed. She rubbed her sweaty brow in confusion, trying to recall any concrete details of the dream. Yet, it all just seemed like a dream. Another figment of her taxed body and mind. 

“Alisaie….?” called a faint whisper and the young Elezen felt as though she had gained the energy of five suns for as quickly as she had leapt across the space to her previously sleeping friend’s bedside. She took up the rag once again to wipe the warrior’s brow before answering, “It’s me Arte. How are you feeling?” The Miqo’te blinked her eyes rapidly, ruby irises darting to and fro. Alisaie felt her heart fall,  _ she’s just woken up of course she won’t be present yet _ . Arte’s face scrunched in pain and her breathing deepened. She expected her to stay like that for more time, but then a tan arm shot out with an unexpected alacrity before she was dragged closer to the seemingly sleeping face. Then Arte’s expression changed, her lips curled until she could make out the tips of her canines and her ears slicked back threateningly. Alisaie thought she saw her ruby eyes become pools of black. But, once again, the energy seemed to vanish and Arte’s eyelids drew closed and her breathing returned to normal. The grip she held on her arm weakened and the young Elezen simply let the appendage fall. She felt a chill shoot down her spine. Some dark sense of foreboding. And she shakily stepped back from the sickbed like any sudden movement would wake the warrior again. Once she reached the door she shut it swiftly and quickened her steps towards the nearest postmoogle. Stunning her brother as she all but tore past him in her urgency. 

That wasn’t Arte. She had never seen Arte act like that.  _ Urianger _ . These thoughts replayed over and over in her head as she hurriedly penned the reclusive man at the Waking Sands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this will probably make no sense to anyone who reads it because I am bad at writing everything all at once and I've honestly started this story in a jarring way. To be honest I didn't expect to make this the starting point but oh well.


	3. Which

Alisaie watched as Arte went about donning her armor as though she did not just spend any length of time on death’s door. As though their grevious wounds to both pride and body had never happened. But Alisaie saw the changes they left in their wake and felt as though Arte’s every move was echoed by the ghosts of rage and vengeance. Could only watch as her friend pushed herself past the limits of good health over and over again just to keep herself moving. 

As Arte bent down to strap on her grieves, her face clenched in pain and one arm braced across the fresh bandages bound over her still healing wounds, Alisaie replayed her conversation with Urianger in her mind: 

 

“You know what is wrong with her, don’t you?” the edge in her tone was enough to scare the floundering Namazu server away from their secluded table in the Hostelry, but not enough to phase the man across from her. Well, he was used to it she supposed. “Beg pardon, my lady, but thou wilt needs be more specific in thine inquiries.” He calmly sipped the proffered tea, even as her fist threatened to put a crater in the table. The sound was enough to quiet most conversation in the tavern, but she continued, “A fortnight ago a strange white robed figure appeared over Arte’s bedside and ever since she hasn’t been herself. Is that specific enough for you?!” 

 

Nobody moved or said a word until Urianger returned his now empty teacup to its place on the table. The soft clink seemed to return the established tavern revelry, and then Urianger moved to remove his goggles; placing them on the table alongside his cup. His golden eyes stared straight into her own, his face placid. “Before I divulge what knowledge I bear, pray tell me what thou witnessed of the Ascian.” 

 

Alisaie recounted what details she could recall herself, imparting that she herself doubted the veracity of what she saw. But Urianger only listened quietly, his face turning almost imperceptibly grim as her account drew to a close. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes in thought absorbing all that she had spoken. He said nothing for a time, and Alisaie thought to pound the table again just to jar him out of his head, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind his eyes opened and he sighed. His hands met and drew up to cover his mouth in pensive contemplation before he finally spoke, “Thou asked whether I was complicit in causing whatever ills have befallen out friend…” Alisaie flinched at his accusation and looked to the floor. “I apologize,” he quickly amended, “twas not meant as an accusation for I know that what transpired with the self-proclaimed “Warriors of Darkness” and mine own deceptions will never truly be forgotten. 

“Nay, I simply ask what  _ exactly _ thou woudst know.” Alisaie answered back without thought, “I would know what is wrong with my friend!” 

 

The server returned with another pot of tea, shakily refilling their cups before scurrying off again. “Alas I cannot offer thee any such answers as I have none myself,” Alisaie narrowed her eyes, a long suffering look of impatience painting her features. “If thou wish, I would divulge mine theories, however.” Alisaie threw her gaze to the heavens and groaned. “So you’re saying you don’t have any definitive proof but you have an idea?” Urianger nodded. “Then  _ yes _ you dolt.”

 

“I would preface this by stating, once again, that this is simply conjecture I have drawn from investigating Mistress Arte’s movements prior to Cartineu and inquiries into her origins which had thus far remained a mystery to all; even to Master Louisoix and Master Thancred whom were obviously the most acquainted with her person.

 

“From what little Master Louisoix gleaned from his own investigation shortly after taking her on as a quasi apprentice, she was once a member of a far remote clan of the Sun Seekers that had not immigrated during the great exodus. In one such tome documenting the Exodus at Sharlyan, a master mentions making contact with a refugee who claimed they had traded with the otherwise secluded clan. He claimed the clan harbored a particular belief, which they and they alone were charged with protecting and they were like to perish before they forsook their sworn duty. Needless to say, the Master was interested in documenting such knowledge, lest it be lost forever. However upon reaching the village he found it razed to the ground and nothing save a few etchings were found that did not have a match anywhere in the vast knowledge of Sharlyan. Until Master Louisoix beheld the strange amulet which the young Arte had never removed from her person.”

 

Alisaie’s brow scrunched in confusion. “So grandfather unknowingly adopted the last survivor of some sect of fanatical Miqo’te.” Urianger merely nodded. “And he never investigated further?” At this Urianger simply shook his head. 

 

“I fear by the time he was able to put two and two together, the events of the Calamity had already been set in motion. I would wager he deemed saving the realm to be of greater import than confronting his otherwise reclusive apprentice.” Alisaie threw up her hands and shrugged exaggeratedly, “Then what does this have to do with what she did before Cartineu?”

 

“According to Master Thancred, if one is willing to presume any account from the person herself  be truth, Mistress Arte was feverishly determined in her search for Eorzea’s salvation alongside the other Archons.” The younger elezen tilted her head in question, “But you think she wasn’t?”

 

“Just so,” Urianger agreed, pausing to take a sip of his quickly cooling tea. He grimaced lightly, at the taste. “Just before we Archons were dispatched to the fonts of the Twelve, Master Louisoix bid Master Thancred take his apprentice. Yet upon reaching her room, by that point long abandoned, no trace could be found save a note addressed to Master Thancred alone.” Alisaie sighed and leaned back in the chair, looking to the ceiling for answers and finding none. “I don’t suppose dear old Thancred was willing to profess to the contents of such a singularly addressed letter?  _ Please _ tell me you aren’t about to spout some secondhand nonsense.” Urianger rubbed his eyes in equal exasperation, which was more telling than anything what  _ exactly _ the man had suffered through just to assess the contents. 

 

“Nay, my lady, I shall spare the incessant ramblings of our fellow for I would prefer to forget such myself. After Mistress Arte’s reappearance and subsequent reunion with we Scions, Master Thancred freely relinquished all articles he had kept of her possessions and bade me figure out whether she was who she appeared to be seeing as her memory was judged to be unreliable.” Flummoxed, Alisaie laughed outright. “You’re saying Thancred just  _ gave _ you her keepsakes because he wanted to know if it was truly her? Couldn’t he have figured that out himself? I was told he was quite close with Arte before, though you wouldn’t think so now given how he can barely bring himself to look at her.” Urianger’s face becomes somewhat remorseful at that and Alisaie can’t help but feel as though she’s narrowly dodged a landmine.

 

“I will not divulge what was spoken in confidence for it is not mine right. If thou wish to inquire about Master Thancred’s dealings then I would bid you speak with him anon.” Alisaie’s eyes widen, but Urianger cuts her off before she can make for some flustered protests. “Returning to the matter of the letter, however, it proved to be an apology of sorts. Mistress Arte predicted that Master Louisoix would seek her aid in Master Thancred’s endeavour and expressed remorse at the later being the one to find her gone. She claimed to have found what she believed would be the key to saving Eorzea, not just in repelling Dalamund but in the future as well.” Urinager went quiet as Alisaie sat in a stupor, absorbing what was said. “So...what? She thinks she found something in her Clan’s history that would solve all of Eorzea’s problems?”

 

Urianger shrugged his shoulders, “To that end, I am as much in the dark as thee for the trail ends there. Not a soul can recall with certain clarity the window of time surrounding Cartineu. And it seems Arte’s own memory has even more that cannot be accounted for.” Alisaie hummed in thought, fingers idly tapping on the table. “But didn’t she say she remembered something of Cartineu when she struck down the remnants of grandfather and Bahamut?” 

 

“Aye, my lady, an astute connection.” Urianger’s brow pinched in concentration and his gaze moved away as if he were looking somewhere else. “I believe this is where fact ends and mine own conjecture truly begins. Not long after the dreaded events at the Coil, did Mistress Arte seek out my counsel. She recounted what small sliver of memory she had regained thus and the circumstances involved, but also expressed an acute feeling of disassociation. Not unlike accounts from the gifted when experiencing the influence of the Echo...”

 

Alisaie rested her arm on the table and brought her hand up to rub at the ache forming behind her brow. She felt like the more she heard the less she understood. “She didn’t recognize her own memory…? I don’t understand…” She felt her braid fall from over her shoulder as she leaned further into the table, disturbing the rest of her stark white hair further as she shook her head repeatedly. Urianger too brought his arms to bear completely upon the table and leaned in as she did, but whereas her posture conveyed confusion his was nothing but confident.

 

“In short, the memory witnessed was indeed true. However, I believe it was brought forth not under the guise of recollection, but born from the Echo resonating with the aether found within the Coil and herself. Both of which were connected in some manner.” The youth closed her eyes and released a slow exhale, the hand on her face drawing into a fist. 

 

_ If what he says is true, then because of whatever occurred during the Calamity between Arte, Grandfather, and Bahamut the Echo picked up on it and played it back to Arte after she performed that martial feat bathed in light and struck Bahamut’s remnants down.  _ She shook her head again, faster this time, and returned her gaze back to Urianger’s. Her face was drawn, anxious even. But she had to ask, she suspected it was the one question Urianger was expecting her to ask. “If…” she began, hesitating long enough to down her own cup of tea. “If the memory wasn’t a memory at all, just a result of the Echo then…” she couldn’t bring herself to say it. For all of Alisaie’s talents, she did not count among those bequeathed with the mystical power said to be granted by Hydaelyn herself. How could she, who knew little to nothing of the Echo, make assumptions from the implications of how it operates. She was nigh hysterical until Urianger sought to relieve her from the winding labyrinth that was her thoughts, “Tis my belief that the soul that resides within does not reflect the body without.” 

 

He said it so casually, eyes and voice unwavering from the truth he feels he needs to convey. Alisaie felt as if she had finally gone mad. She’d wake up from some fever dream soon, back in the sweltering heat of the Gyr Abanian sands. Arte would still be sleeping in her sickbed. Her brother and the others would be frantically trying to secure the Reach. “Are you mad?” her voice wavered. She was tiptoeing the line somewhere between rage and shock. “You’re saying the person inside Arte’s body isn’t Arte. The person who has fought endlessly for Eorzea and remained true to the Scions despite all hardships.” She could feel her voice rise as she spoke on, but could do nothing to stop it. This was not exactly something one took sitting down. “The person who has bled and toiled more than any other for all of us. And  _ you _ , you’re saying she’s...she’s…” Both of her hands slapped against the tabletop and she stood from her chair, shaking. 

 

Urianger did nothing more than blink at her outburst. He slowly leaned back into his chair, hands clasped primly in his lap. His infallibility did nothing but fuel her outrage further, but she swallowed it down. Even if she thought it might choke her, she wasn’t a child anymore. If she was to discern the truth she had to do so with a level head. That and if she broke the table and caused any more of a commotion than she already had, neither of them would be allowed back into Kogane. So she dropped herself back into her seat and curled her palms into fists and moved them to her lap. Urianger saw fit to wait while she breathed and collected herself.

 

Finally, she spoke. “If it’s not Arte, then who or what is she?” Her brother would be proud of her for not sounding as if she was a stone’s throw from skewering her mentor with her rapier. 

 

“I know not the truth of her identity and neither, I suspect, does she.” Alisaie nodded stiffly, her bangs falling in front of her eyes. “ _ What _ she is proves to be no less uncertain, but after such time spent observing her and especially her unparalleled prowess only one similarity comes to mind…” Alisaie slowly shook her head again. It couldn’t be right. There’s no way.  _ Don’t say it. _

 

“The Ascians.”

 

Alisaie’s thoughts returned to the present when she felt a hand lightly clasp her shoulder. She raised her eyes to stare into her friend’s, their ruby cat’s eyes welling with concern.  _ Are you ok? You should rest. _ The young elezen huffed a laugh and shook her head. “I’m alright, just tired of you always beating me when we spar.” Arte’s ears slicked back and flicked, but her face betrayed her mirth. “If you’re so tired of it, you don’t have to train with me. I  _ am _ the famed Warrior of Light, after all.” She put her fists together in show and nodded resolutely. Alisaie just made a shooing motion with her hand. “Yes, yes, but today is a new day. Anything can happen.” She hopped up off the boxes strewn in the corner of the sparse room and nodded to the door.

 

Arte’s bushy tail swayed to and fro as she led the way from their shared room and into the sun of the morning. Alisaie followed, but closed the door behind them. She turned back to see Arte stretching and basking in the open air. As if she hadn’t spent any length of time laid abed. Her brown hair and tawny skin was bathed in the brighter shades of the morning light.

 

_ Curiously, one distinct difference remains to separate Arte from the Ascians. Where the latter's power stems from the void, it seems Arte’s is that of the light.  _

 

“And thus, she remains…” Alisaie whispered as she joined her friend in the dawn.


End file.
